among Vanberts as it was for the Emeralds themselves-even if not more than a handful of young Confederate noblemen had ever attended the school. The Grove had enjoyed a tax-free status for…
'Since we conquered them,' he murmured. 'Whatever our other mistakes, we always had enough sense to incorporate the gods of our defeated enemies into our own pantheon-and we never meddled with their most hallowed shrines.'
'Willech's an idiot,' hissed Olver.
Demansk nodded sternly. He left unspoken the words running through his mind: And a most useful one. I couldn't have asked for anything better.
Demansk thought that Olver already suspected most of his father's ambitions. But his second-oldest son had always been a self-contained and solemn fellow. A very… proper sort of man. Demansk had no doubt at all of Olver's loyalty. But he saw no point in shredding what few illusions-or, perhaps, euphemisms-Olver preferred to maintain over what they were doing. Where Demansk's daughter and youngest son could be, and had been, drawn directly into his conspiracy, it would always suit Olver better to be left at arm's length from it. Still within reach, of course, just… an arm's distance away.
Good enough. Here, too, Demansk would do what was needed.
'I'd like you to take charge of organizing the actual naval project,' he said. 'Not the technical side of it, of course. You'll be able to find plenty of Emerald master shipbuilders for that. But there'll still be enough work to keep you busy.'
Olver smiled. 'To say the least. I don't expect I'll be getting much sleep for the next few months.' He hesitated; then: 'I'll need money, Father. A lot of money. So much, in fact…'
He let the thought trail off. Demansk could finish it with no difficulty. So much money that we'll bankrupt the family as well as empty the coffers the Council sent with us.
Those coffers were full, and there were a lot of them. But Demansk had never specified exactly how he planned to conquer the isles. And so the Council, having nothing to go on but the memory of great naval expeditions of the past, had allotted what seemed to be a suitable portion-and a very large one at that-of the Confederacy's standby war chest.
They'd assumed, Demansk knew, that he intended a long campaign. Two years, maybe three, in the preparations. And then five to ten years in the doing. The oceanic equivalent of a siege, along the lines of what Albrecht was doing at Preble.
Demansk intended to surprise the world here as well. For his long-term purposes, he needed a quick and crushing victory over the Islanders. Partly, that was because he needed to sidestep the inevitable economic exhaustion of a long campaign-which would be absolutely devastating for the islanders themselves. Demansk could not afford that. He needed prosperous Emeralds; and a population of the Islands which, though desperate to appease their conquerors, still had the wherewithal to do so.
And, of course, partly because he would need the aura of martial triumph which such a victory would bring with it. Not the least of a would-be tyrant's job requirements was a reputation for invincibility. It was not enough for Demansk to be respected and admired for his military skills. He already had that much, from his enemies as well as his friends. What he would need in the future was their terror. The kind of bone-deep terror that would make the words 'Demansk is coming' enough to end most battles before they began.
That kind of terror could be obtained in only one of two ways. (Or both, as Marcomann had done.) The first was to demonstrate inhuman brutality. The other was to demonstrate frightening skill at war. It was Demansk's hope-perhaps futile-that he could avoid most of the former if he could do well enough at the latter.
Olver's voice broke into his ruminations. 'Father? Did you hear what I said? About the money we'll need, I mean.'
'I heard. Don't worry about it, son. When the time comes, your august father will provide. And I won't have to bankrupt the family fortune to do it, either.' He cleared his throat. 'Though I dare say I will have to deplete it quite a bit.'
Olver shrugged. 'Depleting it doesn't matter, as long as we've got enough seed corn for the next year.'
Demansk clapped him on the shoulder. He approved of Olver. Granted, his second-oldest son had little of Helga or Trae's quick wits and humor. But he was a solid boy. He always had been.
Demansk had always said he would trust Olver with his life. Now, he was about to prove it.
'Not to worry, son.'
'I'm not worrying about it, Father,' came the immediate reply. 'Just… wondering a bit, that's all.' Before Demansk could say anything, Olver placed his own square hand atop his father's, still resting on the son's shoulder. 'Don't tell me. I'd rather not know.'
That night, in the privacy of his sleeping chambers, Demansk appointed his third Special Attendant. A small, wiry man, with a face like a claw hammer. Except for its narrowness, in fact, the face looked quite a bit like Willech's.
The man's name was Prit Sallivar, and he had been Demansk's closest and most trusted financial adviser for years. The family's banker, for all practical purposes.
'The Council's going to have a shitfit,' he predicted. 'Probably be a riot in the Assembly.'
Demansk shrugged. 'I don't care about the Assembly. Unless they can find a point of clear support in the Council, the 'Assembly' is just a fancy name for the 'mob of Vanbert.' Screw 'em. The Council's the key, right now. And I'm trusting you to keep it locked.'
Sallivar made a face. 'That's a terrible mixed metaphor. Don't let any Emerald grammarian hear you say things like that, Verice, or you'll be the one facing a provincial rebellion here.'
Demansk chuckled. Sallivar was one of the few men close enough to him to use the Triumvir's first name. He was also one of the few who didn't hesitate to gibe at Demansk's not-always-elegant use of language. It was part of the reason Demansk trusted him. That and, of course, the fact that if Demansk fell, Prit Sallivar would be dismembered by their mutual enemies within moments thereafter.
'Use the old man, Prit.' Then, scrambling the metaphor hopelessly: 'He'll turn the key in the lock for you.'
Sallivar's face was now truly sour. 'Turn it which way?' he demanded. 'Will you please give up the bad poetry and speak in plain and simple prose.'
'Jeschonyk will keep the Council under control. He's… not my man, no. But he'll not wish to cross me in this. And since he's not one of Willech's creditors or debtors, he'll have neither a personal grudge nor any need to act impartial in the matter. And you know how well he can give that 'for the good of the Confederacy' speech of his.'
'None better,' allowed Sallivar. He straightened up and squared his shoulders. Stretched them, rather. It had been a long planning session.
'All right, Verice. I'll do my best. How soon?'
There was no humor on Demansk's face now. 'Tomorrow,' he said.
'Tomorrow?'
'Why wait?'
Chapter 12
'I can delay it for another hour,' said Thicelt tightly, peering at the vessel half a mile off from the stern of their ship. His eyes were squinted against the sun, which gave his huge-beaked face an even fiercer look than usual. 'No longer than that. The wind's not good enough to stay ahead of them before their rowers tire.'
Jessep Yunkers gave the pirate ship pursuing them a last glance and turned to Helga.
'It's your decision, ma'am.'
Helga hesitated, not sure what to do. Then, an oft-repeated remark of her father's came back to her.
'My father always said to rely on your First Spear's advice when you were unsure of things. So-what is it?'
